Infra Black
by Hekateras
Summary: "The Devil," Aziraphale said simply. Moments later, it occurred to Crowley that his earlier assessment of having nothing more to lose had been a tad premature.


"The Devil," Aziraphale said simply.

Shadwell nodded, threw the gun down and pulled off his hat. "Ah reckoned so. In that case, I'm gonna use ma _haid_."

Crowley wasn't listening. He was staring at the tire iron and wondering if he could get it to flame.

He felt eyes on him and looked up. Aziraphale was watching him, looking oddly serene in the bright white light of the sword. But then, he would be.

"Right," Crowley said with a brittle smile. "Let's do this."

Aziraphale nodded.

It was a good coat. Crowley felt a pang of regret as he let his wings unfold to the sky. Aziraphale's were fluffed up and messy in the way that came from being tucked in too long.

Despite himself, Crowley glanced back briefly at the Antichrist. The boy was standing still, blank-faced and terrified.

So much for a last-minute miracle, then.

Crowley stepped gingerly to stand beside Aziraphale. "Your wings are a mess," he muttered.

Aziraphale smiled at him.

There was thunder, the way thunder might have sounded in the first days of Creation, amidst boiling seas and screaming winds. The cracks in the earth flared wide open. A pillar of yellow smoke rose, burning overwhelmingly hot and somehow dark at the same time, turning the air too acrid to breathe.

What might distantly be called a figure was standing in it.

"Right then," Aziraphale was saying to himself, and suddenly he was moving, sword outstretched and wings flaring out – against all common sense, _toward_ the figure. Suddenly Crowley wanted to scream at him, _Aziraphale, you great bloody idiot, wait for me._ He wondered if the angel hadn't bothered to coordinate because he'd assumed Crowley would follow.

He wondered why that was exactly what he was doing.

The figure swept them with an indifferent gaze.

There were no words, only a power lashing forth that burned the ground black beneath it, to clash against the thin, improbably puny arc of light in Aziraphale's hand. The angel's wings flashed gold from the strain, but against all odds, he held.

Crowley attacked from another angle. The blasted tire iron made a screeching sound as it tore through the flaming surface of the figure.

Lucifer swatted at him.

_This must be what infra-black looks like_, Crowley thought numbly some very blank moments later. He blinked up at the stormy sky. There were chips of pavement digging in against his sides and something wet running down his chest. His wings felt like a hot, splintering mess.

Bright movement caught his eye and he turned his head. Aziraphale more closely resembled a small fireball with wings by this point, tiny next to the pillar of incarnate yellow evil.

The angel's sword bit into Lucifer's side with a keening sound. Lucifer howled like a forest fire and lashed out and Crowley felt more than heard the angel's cry. Feathers went flying into the air.

So much for the wings, then.

Lucifer spun and the sword was wrenched free, went flying dozens of feet, out of reach.

"Shit," Crowley hissed, grappling with the pavement that didn't seem to want to let him go. He struggled to his knees. He was too far away.

He'd never felt a more urgent need to be closer to death in his life.

As he stumbled towards the Adversary, he watched with a horrible sinking feeling as Aziraphale was yanked to the ground, pressed flat against it.

It occurred to him that his earlier assessment of having nothing more to lose had been a tad premature.

_Aziraphale, you stupid goodie two-shoes bastard_, he thought, mostly to give his mind something to do besides mute screaming. _You didn't need to do this. It's not like you personally lost the Antichrist. You could've gotten away from all this, scot-free._

The Adversary readied the final blow, a lance of scorching energy gathering in his grasp. Crowley laughed shakily to himself.

_This is it, then_, he thought.

He broke into a shuffling run.

At the last moment, he stumbled to his knees, covered Aziraphale's body with his own, raised what was left of his mangled wings. It wouldn't be enough to stop the blow. It wouldn't even slow it down. But that wasn't the point, not really.

He caught Aziraphale's eyes, all serenity gone from them. But no surprise.

Good. He'd have been mightily pissed if he'd seen _surprise_ in there.

Crowley closed his eyes against the angel's, even as he felt the incoming blow scorch away the last of his feathers.

_My dear_, the angel said.

Crowley smiled.

_Yes._

Infra-black.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Crowley gasped, limbs flailing.

Or they would be, if there wasn't a warm, leaden weight settled across them.

He blinked up at the ceiling. Still plaster. Good. He blinked again and squinted. There seemed to be a tartan shirt hanging off the ceiling lamp. Oh well.

His heart was hammering. He considered getting it to stop, then shuddered.

"Hmblfffmmrf," Aziraphale mumbled, and the heavy grasp across Crowley's waist tightened considerably. Feathers crawled against his mouth.

Right. Because they'd... and then... Okay.

Sunday.

Not the end of the world, then. Well, not for _most_ of the world at any rate. _They_ were likely still just hours away from some heavy comeuppance from Above and Below, respectively. You didn't mouth off to the big bosses and expect to get away with it. Unless you trusted in what the boy had said, and were willing to take a leap of faith for the attention span of an eleven-year-old.

That said, his frantic we'll-probably-all-die-soon rationale had quite unexpectedly moved continents last night, even after he'd discovered the clean spot of carpet where Ligur's stain should be and wondered aloud if they really _didn't_ need to worry about it and the angel had said _Sod this, my dear, let's do this anyway_ and yeah, now that Crowley looked again, there really _was _a tartan shirt hanging off the ceiling lamp.

In retrospect, he suspected the angel had simply been trying to get him to calm down, and had discovered an innovative, exceedingly manipulative method of doing so.

Crowley peeked sideways at the face roughly two inches away. The angel seemed to be catching up on several thousand years of unwavering vigilance. His hair sticking out every which way, his cheeks and neck flushed and his mouth slightly open, he looked utterly dishevelled and somewhat debauched as well.

Crowley caught himself blushing and looked away hurriedly.

He looked at the ceiling lamp again – it figures it would take the end of the world for the angel to infect his flat with tartan – and shifted, snuggling against the cocoon of warm flesh and soft feathers. He could get used to this.

With a slow, horrifying feeling, he realised he already was.

He spent ten seconds of careful not-breathing, considering this possibility.

Then he shrugged and turned his face to Aziraphale's, burying his cheek against the cushion of soft hair. The angel didn't even stir.

_'Ever-vigilant', my ass_, Crowley thought, and went back to sleep.

It was a new day.


End file.
